


Horrifying

by Rennll



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Actually don't own the Game, Character Study, Gen, Hurt, Phobias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rennll/pseuds/Rennll
Summary: The red haired master mused on a paradox regarding one of her servants.She would never be a paragon of empathy.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Horrifying

The pristine view from a mountain top: gazing down upon a climbing sun and the morning mists that rose to envelop it in white veils. Simply through existing such serenity soothed any creature gifted with eyes. More so: the blind could drink the silence with his ears and the deaf savor the caress of fog through her skin. His face was like that, sculptured out of glass. The red haired master thought that what she was looking at was more spectacle than human.  
The story called “The Phantom of the Opera” was about a man with a terrifying deformity. Afraid of being shunned by society he hid behind a mask and fled to the mass of aqueducts luring below the city, making it his lonesome labyrinth.  
Either the story was a misinterpretation of a real individual’s fate, the author somehow missing the fact that the phantom’s appearance was only unorthodox the way a supermodel didn’t look like an average joe, or servants simply weren’t allowed to be ugly. The master supposed didn’t matter whichever it was. The half of the phantom's face that wasn’t obscured by a mask made her think of absurdly beautiful things.  
To the point of being unnerving, his features like figments of a daydream, awkward when dropped into reality. Was that natural since every servant was, in a sense, a fantasy brought to life? She would hardly call herself an expert authority on them, despite all the ones she had summoned, and Erik (As the phantom’s first name was) seemed more unreal than most.  
In conjunction with summoning pristine- view servants she had begun smiling in the mirror more. Small imperfections in her appearance that had irked her — black hair sprouting from the birthmarks on her chin, the upward pointing nose, and the zits that showed up here-and-there- and-everywhere — didn’t seem as ugly now that she’d learned how grating on the eyes true hollywood- physical perfection was.  
An ironic spin on the classic tale: what if Erik disguised himself because his beauty was the thing that made people regard him as a freak? That thought amused her enough to bring out a chuckle. She would never be a paragon of empathy.  
What explained the mask then? Years of seeing it, and still the bloodied grin twisted into the frame, the needle- like teeth and sunken in devil’s eye, coiled something icy within her gut, a horror she would have expected to see beneath the mask rather than carved on the outside.  
If Erik in reality was angelic, could the mask be what that the audience had imagined the phantom's face to be, or had he worn the same mask in life? That demon's grin might have been the last thing his victims witnessed before he murdered them.  
It moved sometimes. She caught glimpses of the lips twitching, the eye narrowing, or heard it breathe out of sync with its wearer. Without it Erik would be spotless. Chilling to be sure, though less so than when half the face of a demon leered at you. Not that he realized this himself, bowing his head to hide his good side whenever they spoke, and avoiding all reflective surfaces. If never seeing his own face was a sport, then he was the undisputed champion. For months she saw him turn away from puddles, windows and the small things you never thought of as mirrors, like the facets in the bathroom. She acknowledged his skill at the same time that she grew heartedly tired of his complex.  
There came a point when all she wanted to do was slap the phantom across the chin and tell him to pick something less common- place to be phobic about. Mirrors were everywhere, in every bedchamber. People couldn’t invite him over without covering each square inch surface of the wall ( Cursed interior designers ) and the kitchen staff were forced to wash the same pair of plastic utensils each time they wanted to treat him to food. Couldn’t he be afraid of the Boogeyman instead? He at least disappeared when the sun came up. Though on second thought, there was always the possibility that she would summon the Boogeyman as a servant one day …  
Since Erik made for a pitiful sight every time he did happen a glance at his own reflection, trembling a storm, she made sure to squash these insensitive impulses — For half a year, which was a new record.  
When her patience did run out, she grabbed his hand and dragged him to the full length mirror in the assembly hall, the absolute largest one in the facility. When he struggled, she used a command spell. Roman would be livid, but she didn’t think about that.  
He was whimpering even before they reached the mirror, quaking where he stood, then forced to stare into his dreaded image. For a moment she regretted herself, feeling brutish, but now that she had made him look, she would despise herself even more if she did not see this through. She removed his mask, fingers gingerly prancing at the edges and making sure the teeth were far away from her thumb. Beneath it was the second half of his face, a perfect symmetrical match to the uncovered one.  
– See, you’re not hideous, she said, brushing away the silky black bangs that obscured his red eyes. In a past life you might have looked different, but right now you are beautiful.  
He stumbled back. Through the hand she held behind his back, as partly support and partly assurance that he would not flee, she felt how tense he was. She glanced between him and his reflection, both staring at each other. His eyes glittered with a clarity that seemed not to have been there before. It struck her that his gaze was usually glazed over, like on a blind. Tears began spilling down from the corner of those eyes, because it had to be painful for a blind to regain his sight and suddenly see everything again. Another step back. She tensed, prepared for him to bail despite her command.  
Erik did not try to run; he collapsed. The master lunged forward to catch him, thanking God for the phantom’s lithe build, then cursing God for making her so much shorter than him. They tumbled down on the floor, ending up in a pile.  
For the next hour he would not budge from that spot, head buried in her lap as he wailed “Christine, Christine” neverendingly. Ants were soon crawling up the master’s legs, but she stayed the whole time, stroking his hair, and staring into the mirror.  
– I’m not your Christine. I’m sorry, she mumbled while he kept on calling, not seeming to hear her.


End file.
